Vulnerable
by stripeyjumpers
Summary: A classic case of "John I'm not ill please go be a doctor somewhere else." Sherlock won't admit that he's not feeling well, and has trouble asking for help, but luckily John always seems to be one step ahead of him.


A/N: As requested a little while ago on my story 'The Best Medicine' here is my take of Sherlock being under the weather. Thanks for reading and any thoughts or suggestions will always help ^-^

* * *

"Lestrade?" John asked through the phone as he made his way down the sidewalk back to Baker Street.

"John, how far are you from the Yard?" the detective inspector asked with a twinge of concern.

"Er, dunno, ten minute cab ride maybe? Why, what's Sherlock said to Anderson this time?"

"Well, nothing, actually, mostly 'cause he just passed out."

"_What?_ How? Why? I mean, is he okay?" John stopped on a corner and started hailing a cab.

"He was rambling on about something when he started to look kinda off, next thing you know he's on the floor."

"Jesus, is he awake?"

"Sort of, he's in and out. I asked if he needed the hospital but he hissed at me like a damn cat and said to just call you."

"He's an idiot, I'll be right there." John assured as he ducked into a cab.

* * *

Upon entering Lestrade's office, John was greeted with the sight of the tall detective sprawled dramatically across the floor, with the inspector standing over him with his hands resting on his hips. John said a quick, breathy greeting to Lestrade before kneeling down by his friend's side.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

"Mm."

"Wake up, you big git!" John taunted as he cupped the detective's face, which he immediately noticed was far warmer than normal. The doctor put his wrist to Sherlock's forehead and sighed.

"Mmf, John, quit touching me…" Sherlock mumbled with eyes still closed.

"Sherlock, you're sick!"

"I know I'm a bit eccentric but don't you thing that's a tad harsh?" he slurred.

"I can't believe you went out like this, now get up, we're leaving." John started to snake his arm around the detective's waist to help him up but was met with immediate protest.

"We most certainly are n—" Sherlock was interrupted with a barrage of coughs and wheezes. John tightened his grip.

"Right, well, when you can get through an argument without hacking up your lungs then we can talk, but now you're gonna listen to me and get up."

"Mmff…" Sherlock grumbled as John tried to lift him.

"We need to get you home and into bed." The doctor reasoned.

"Really John? It's not even the third date."

"Hush will you? Talking's only gonna irritate your throat more and sarcasm isn't going to help anyone."

"That's odd; I heard sarcasm is packed with antioxidants."

"What is it about being half-conscious that makes you suddenly full of witty remarks?" John asked he slung his arm around the detective's shoulders and finally began to lift him.

"My brain must be functioning at a normal person's level…" The detective sulked as his head slumped down below his shoulders. John just huffed and tightened his hold on his limp friend as he said a quick thank you and apology to Lestrade before heading out.

* * *

Once they were back at Baker Street, John had to practically drag Sherlock into his bedroom. He tucked him under the covers, just about shoved a thermometer down his throat and most likely beat a world record for the fastest preparation of tea. He was about to set the steaming mug down on Sherlock's nightstand when the detective's harsh voice croaked through the air.

"John, I don't need tea, and I don't need to be mollycoddled, I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"Well I can assure you I'm not _coddling_ anything; you're gonna drink your tea, take your medicine, and stay in bed until you can stand without toppling over like a domino."

"I did not _topple_ over, I simple over-estimated the amount of energy it would take—"

"That's it, no more talking; it doesn't take a genius to hear how bad your voice is."

"There is nothing wrong with my voice." Sherlock squealed.

"Really? Then who's the teenage boy going through puberty trying to talk me?"

"Shut up, John." The detective sneered as he shoved his head further into the pillow.

"No, you shut up, that's the point. Now close your eyes and get some sleep, or I'll throw out all the pig's ears in the fridge."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Let's not forget which of the two of us can walk properly."

"_Fine,"_ Sherlock scoffed dramatically as he curled the duvet violently over his frame, shutting his eyes unnecessarily tight.

"Right, well, ganight, then, you know where I am if you need me." John said a little quitter before shutting the door softly.

* * *

"What the hell are you doing?" John threw his arms up in the air as he found his friend lying across the sofa in his pajamas and dressing gown with the case file in his hands.

"I'm reading. I see your observational skills are lacking again."

"No, Sherlock, you should be in bed! I take a kip for a half an hour and you're back to your antics?" John trotted over to the couch and snatched the file away.

"I was _reading that_ John." The detective whined with a scratchy throat.

"So I've gathered." The doctor put out his wrist to Sherlock's forehead. "Damn it Sherlock, you're still too warm, and whether you want to acknowledge it or not, you are not feeling well."

"I'm feeling just fine," he sniffled, "the case isn't solved, that's the only problem."

"Alright," John sighed in surrender, "how 'bout I make you some tea, and read the case file to you, yeah?"

Sherlock sniffled again, stared into space and eventually gave a small nod.

* * *

"Okay, but if the window was locked, how did the thief manage to get in without breaking it?" John asked, eyes skimming the case file as he sat in his armchair.

"Mm, window wasn' locked…lied, brother, opened it for her…" Sherlock practically whispered from his stretched out position on the couch.

"The brother wasn't even home though, the whole family was out on holiday remember?"

"Left it open…"

"So, what, he just left it wide open so his girlfriend could help herself in and steal the necklace?"

"Mm,"

"But that doesn't make sense," John started, staring down at the file in his lap, "the girlfriend was out of town, and she had an alibi, so how do you figure she did it?"

John looked up at the detective who was still sprawled across the sofa; however, instead of getting a snarky answer, he was greeted with the image of the detective soundly asleep.

"Sherlock?" John whispered. He smiled quietly to himself and closed up the file, setting it softly to his side.

He sat for a moment and watched his friend's slow breathing, then got up and gently felt his forehead again. "Huh, little better," he muttered quietly.

John turned to the coffee table and picked up the finished cup of tea, placing the empty mug in the sink.

* * *

It was a little while before John came back downstairs to check up on his flatmate, deciding he looked rather cold. He snagged the blanket from his armchair and was about to rest it gingerly on top of Sherlock when he suddenly spoke up.

"Don't you dare." He said with eyes still shut.

"Sherlock, I'm just trying to help."

"Well stop."

"Fine, freeze then." John lowered the blanket and turned to walk away when Sherlock's eyes shot open and narrowed at his friend.

"Some doctor you are," he murmured.

"Sherlock!" John shouted in an irritated tone.

"I need a doctor, not a nanny; you don't need to tuck me in."

"Fine," John agreed, and tossed the blanket on top of Sherlock's face.

The detective quickly ripped the fabric off him and readjusted it around his waist. "You don't have to be rude either." He whined.

"You know what? As a doctor with a patient who's got a sore throat I'd recommend a healthy dose of shut the heck up for five minutes."

"Mm, really? Can you write me a prescription?"

John just headed back to his chair, picked up the Union Jack pillow and threw it, borderline playfully at his friend.

"_Rude._" Sherlock scoffed.

* * *

By the time night had fallen, Sherlock had managed to be sick almost three times, downed another cup of tea and half a piece of toast, and tried to sneak his violin before John snatched it up and put it in his room.

John had just finished his supper and was clearing off the dishes when he glanced back to the sitting room again. Sherlock was laying half-awake under the covers, a distant look in his eyes and sweat brimming his forehead.

"Sherlock, hey, I think you ought to take some more medicine now," John said over his shoulder before reaching for the paracetamol. He filled a glass of water and headed over to the sofa.

Sherlock didn't protest, just quietly took the pills and lay back down.

"All tuckered out then?" he asked, but Sherlock just closed his eyes and turned his head away.

John glanced at his watch; it was just after six o'clock and he reasoned he could have a shower later, and decided to tidy up the kitchen and sitting room instead.

* * *

John had just put the very last dish back in the cabinet when he started to hear shuffling from the living room. He turned to find Sherlock, sitting upright, looking around the room with and oddly mischievous smile on his face. He put the towel down on the counter, padded over to the sofa and spoke just as the detective opened his mouth.

"No, you're not going anywhere." He stated with hands on his hips.

"J—"

"Don't say my name like that, it's not gonna work."

"Sa—"

"Don't play dumb, you know exactly how you say my name when you want something. So I'll say it again, you're staying home."

"It's—"

"It doesn't matter if it's for the case! You're burning up, shaking, dizzy and nauseous even if you won't admit it."

"…How did you know I was dizzy?"

"Because I'm a doctor, and I'm your friend; and you kind of keep swaying back and forth and don't realize you're doing it. Lay down, Sherlock."

"No!" he shouted as loud as he could without his voice cracking, "I have to go out, this is—"

"Not more important than your health!"

"Fine, I'll just wait until you're asleep and sneak out." He crossed his arms like a child.

"Ha, like hell you will, 'cause you're sleeping on that sofa and I'm sleeping in this chair," John motioned toward his red armchair.

"What, are you going to install a baby monitor next?"

"That's actually not a half bad idea."

"John!"

"Get your rest, Sherlock, please."

"You're not my mother."

"Like you would listen to her either. I'm serious; you're really not well, and the faster you get better the faster you can go back on cases."

Sherlock just gave a non-committal response and allowed John to lay him back down and cover him up.

"Do you need anything else? Tea? Some actual food maybe?" John asked.

"No,"

"Okay, I'll get you that icepack."

"I didn't ask for one,"

"But I know you need it." John said as he headed to the kitchen.

"Get out of my head, John." Sherlock mumbled as he shut his eyelids softly.

* * *

"You have _got_ to be kidding me." John scowled at Lestrade on the other end of his mobile as he rubbed his forehead in frustration, looking at the abandoned sofa. "Oh, my god…I'm so sor—yeah, I know. No, I was just having a shower! Sneaky bastard…yeah, bring him on back, thanks." John hung up and cursed under his breath.

* * *

After being taken down by a small group of thugs in an alley, Sherlock was lucky to only come out with a bruise on his cheek and some sore ribs. Lestrade had shown up in the nick of time and got the assailants in handcuffs before phoning John. Now Sherlock was back at 221B, in the same position on the sofa, only with far more ice packs and blankets, and wasn't planning on moving any time soon.

John stood over him with crossed arms and a worried scowl.

"I really, really, _really_ don't want to say I told you so." He said, his voice exhausted.

"But?" Sherlock croaked.

"But…are you alright?"

"M'sorry?"

"Are you…alright, I mean, physically I know you're far from okay, but…"

"But what, John?"

"I just feel like…" he scanned the floor with his eyes before deciding to perch himself on the edge of the coffee table, his elbows resting on his knees, "is there something else that's bothering you?"

"How do you do that?" the detective's voice was practically a whisper.

"Do what?"

"You…always know."

"Always know what?"

"When I'm, not okay, in terms of…"

"Feelings?"

"And that…you keep finishing my sentences. Are you sure you're not part of some hybrid telepathy experiment?"

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm sure. And this 'special ability' I have, it's called being a friend. Now, what is it that's bugging you?"

"This." He stated simply.

"What?"

"_This._" He motioned the blankets covering him.

"What, the blanket?"

"No, well, yes, in a way, it's—I can't—When I was—and those guys in the alley were…and I couldn't, I _couldn't_, John."

"You couldn't, defend yourself?"

Sherlock sighed, "Another nail right on the head, doctor."

"Alright so, you don't like being sick because…you don't have control. You want to do everything yourself, you don't want anyone tucking you in or fighting your battles, even if _you_ can't fight your own battles. You're weak and, and, oh, vulnerable."

"Very good, John."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, nothing you can…" Sherlock's voice trailed off as his eyelids threated to close on him.

John reached out a hand and wiped away a few stray curls from the detective's face.

"Sleep, Sherlock, we can talk in the morning."

"Morning…"

"Yeah, the morning." John bent down and placed a chaste kiss to his friend's forehead, ruffling his hair a bit before getting up and heading off to bed.

* * *

A/N: So I hope you guys enjoyed my little grumpy Sherlock, and speaking of Sherlock, I have a bit of an announcement.

I recently opened an Etsy shop where I'm selling BBC Sherlock related charms and jewelry. I'd be super grateful if you went to check it out, it would just mean the world to me. Thanks so much! :)

(MulberryMiniatures on Etsy)


End file.
